


Ctrl

by gertrudeabernathy



Series: Keyboard [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, POV Derek, Pining, shy!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gertrudeabernathy/pseuds/gertrudeabernathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek has everything under control at last - except for the part where he is apparently going out of his mind.<br/>But don't worry! He is going to straighten up and fly right, and keep it together, and not daydream about Stiles any more, no sirree. No pining here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ctrl

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey, thanks for the kudos for my first attempt, v encouraging. I'm new so let me know what's what. x

Things were under control. They were good, even. Derek didn’t want to let himself lie in bed thinking today. He had taken care of his morning nonsense - well no-one could be blamed for their dreams, could they? But it was enough. Now for a proper day! He pulled on his jeans and went downstairs. It was bright and airy and early-feeling in the house.

There was a little twinge in his shoulder, as he swung off the banister into the living room. He leaned on the stained wood of the kitchen doorway to stretch it out. The nasty tear somewhere inside during the brief fray last night had faded down to a little stiffness, but it was a good habit to test the thoroughness of his recovery.

It was funny - he was craving a drink of milk. There was some in the refrigerator - he didn’t remember buying milk recently so one of the pack must have brought it over. Maybe Lydia - she and Allison had taken to drinking tea. His mind flashed on an image of Allison’s face last night, alight with ferocity as the few arrows she had to loose to get taken seriously went thudding into their targets. Anyway, the date on the milk was good, and there was only a half pint left in the carton so he didn’t bother with a glass.

Last night - well apart from a few bruises and scrapes - was a satisfying memory. No-one had ended up dead - so the Argents had no reason to break their truce - and the rogue hunters had been shown in painful, slow-to-heal detail that the Beacon Hills werewolves and their humans were too formidable to mess with. Everyone knew where they were meant to be, and for once, they were all right there. Derek wiped the milk off his top lip and thought about how right it had felt to fight alongside Scott. The best part was that Stiles had more than held his own. He was quick - slipping away from a big hunter who thought a light-weight youngster would be easy to intimidate, striking back when the man got angry and stupid - heel, elbow, and a kick to the back of the knee, face so serious and focused it didn’t look like he was fighting at all, more as if he were dancing a very solemn dance that he was determined not to mess up. And when he stepped clear he looked to Derek, and his face was - not happy exactly - it was hard to describe. It was good, anyway.

He started looking around for the copy of Gulliver’s Travels that he had picked up in town. He had felt a bit weird buying what he thought was a kid’s book, but when he started reading it, he thought that he probably knew the only two students at Beacon Hills High that would have been up to reading it for fun. It was creepy and funny and surprisingly filthy, and he was quite into it. He found the paperback at last - he really didn’t remember leaving it on the arm of the couch - and went to sit out on the porch to read, leaning against the house with his jeans-clad legs stretched out in front of him. But before he could really get absorbed, he started thinking about how beautiful the Lilliputians looked to Gulliver, and in the book it was because they were so small compared to him that none of their flaws were visible. It made sense, but it was strange. Sometimes the closer you got, the more detail you saw, eyelashes, the tiny lines around the mouth from the habitual half-smile - the more beautiful someone was. 

And as for flaws - for instance, say a person had a few moles on their face and on their chest, little brown ones, very randomly mapped out but maybe predominantly on their left side… well they weren’t flaws at all, really, were they? They were like a counter-rhythm over the satisfying structure of that body, over that long frame and the pale skin, just starting to freckle over the shoulders at the beginning of summer, now, from a few mornings’ running in a loose singlet. The freckles were not really brown though - they were almost gold… 

Derek closed his eyes and let his neck relax, so his head clunked back against the boards of the house. He could smell fifty smells from the woods - pine resin, grass in the early sun, a distant whiff of fresh water from the stream, the smell of the dirt itself, a cautious rabbit nibbling the grass just outside the cover of the tree line; but he also smelt traces of the others, from when they were here yesterday and before, a note of Lydia’s blood from where she scraped her knuckles trying to learn to fletch arrows, and, inescapably, on the cover of his book - that spicy-soft note that was Stiles, almost too faint on the paper, where he must have picked up whatever Derek was reading just out of interest, tracking him without trying, just aware of what he was doing, where he was looking, what he was thinking. Last night when they were meeting to talk about the confrontation, Stiles had waited for a moment when someone else had the floor and touched his arm lightly and put a glass of water in Derek’s hand, without a word, and he had been surprised to find that he actually was thirsty. He drank it. Stiles had brought one for himself as well, and his throat moved as he drank, and drew Derek’s eye. It was something to see when he tilted his head back to drain it. 

The shadows were shortening on the grass. The morning was slipping by and he wasn’t really doing anything - just sitting around thinking about stuff. About …  


He was doing it again. He was thinking about Stiles, wasn’t he? Which was stupid. He was going to get annoyed with himself if he didn’t put a stop to it. It made no sense. He should think about the whole pack. About what to do next on the house.

They wanted him to fix up his room. Although the kitchen was nice and there was a sort of starter library and the downstairs bathroom was ok and the big sitting room downstairs was safe, at least, the new floorboards were in, they said it was dismal that in the room where Derek slept there was still smoke damage and even one bit of charring still visible near the door. Stiles had looked around his room with his hands on his hips and delivered a one-word verdict: “Horrible.” And he had gone on to say that Derek had people to look after, now, so he had to look after himself, and that within a year he wanted to see a reasonable bed, not a mattress on the floor with a rarely-cleaned spread and a cardboard carton where a bedside table might reasonably be expected to sit. “No wonder you are gloomy, dude. Your bedroom must make you want to smother yourself with a pillow when you wake up, and what we want to see is this!” And Stiles did an eyelid-flutter and a big fake smile and a cheesy stretch worthy of a Disney Princess. “There we are!” he crowed triumphantly at Derek’s surly snort, “that’s what we want to see: Happy Derek!” 

Derek had just shaken his head and stalked off downstairs, but later in the kitchen while they cleaned up, he tried to say what he had been thinking when Stiles had been fooling around, stretching those long arms in fake-rapture. “You’ve grown.” Stiles looked at him, pleased, as he wiped the breadboard with a damp cloth into the sink. “Have I?” he said. They looked at each other and Derek wondered if he was looking down or up. He stood up straighter and Stiles followed suit before he spoke. “I think you are still taller than me though,” he said, and then suddenly he was acutely shy. His face and neck blushed red and he looked anywhere except at Derek, who was suddenly longing to say something about the way he was filling out, too, about how his shoulders looked stronger and how all that lacrosse and hand-to-hand training had changed the way Stiles held himself. But it stuck in his throat. Would he have sounded like he was trying to be - paternal? Like a coach? He had been training Stiles. It might have been ok.

Except that maybe he was silent, because what he really wanted to say seemed impossibly ridiculous. Maybe what he had really wanted to say to Stiles was, “I have a pain in my chest because of how beautiful you have become.”

A bird called in the woods and he noticed that he was holding his book against his heart, so that faint perfume was still just perceptible. Judging by the light it was 11am, and so far today he had drunk some milk, read one paragraph of his 400 page book and spent the better part of two hours obsessing about Stiles’ growing confidence, and his long arms, and his face when he blushed, and his strong shoulders with the faint golden freckles, and his voice laughing, and his touch, and his soft skin…

He stood up. Maybe if he showered, his head would be clearer. 

Five minutes later, and as the water ran down his back, he pressed his face against the cold tiles and tried to reach around to put his finger inside, as he worked himself hard, quiet sounds jerking out of him as he imagined that mouth on his cock, first licking him in tentative exploration, then suckling firmly, with Stiles’ quiet hum of approbation and simple pleasure adding to the overwhelming sensation.

“Stiles,” he whispered gratefully to the wall, as he came.

Derek dried himself off, and wondered when things had gotten completely out of control.


End file.
